The Fog

I've always been creeped out by fog. The way you could see, and yet, at the same time you just couldn't. My mother always said this was because I was born partially blind, though I don't remember that time. I was so little. Something had developed wrong, or it was unnecessary, I'm not sure which. It clouded my vision, leaving me mostly blind. But a surgery corrected it before I was even old enough to remember the problem even existed. But my mother insisted that subconsciously I was always afraid the problem would return, and that that was what stemmed my discomfort with fog.

I say discomfort, because the feelings I had then don't even compare to the terror fog brings me now. The social worker sent me to therapy for it after I freaked out. Fog had formed when I was with my foster mother in the store. Stepping outside... I just froze. My heart sped, I began to sweat, I cried. I just stood there, frozen with shock. I couldn't breathe. And as soon as the shock wore off, I panicked. I raced back into the store, startling quite a few customers and frightening my foster mother. I went to the center of the store and just stood there, shaking. I felt like the fog itself was going to attack me.

My foster mother found me and tried to calm me down, but it was next to impossible. Eventually, I fainted. When I woke I was screaming, though I don't remember my dream. Eventually they got it through to me that the fog was gone. I reacted the same way at Halloween, with all the fog machines going that night was pure hell. When I fainted in a haunted house, before we had even gotten into the actual "haunted" part, they knew I was trouble. And as soon as I was calm, my foster parents called my social worker. As much as the "cared" for me, they had a new baby. They couldn't handle a sixteen year old girl who required more attention than the baby once the fog rolled in.

My therapist says that what I am experiencing is not just a simple childhood fear, but a full blown phobia. She told me that it was to be expected, considering what I went through. She said it was normal. I laughed at that. How was it normal? A fear this strong over something as harmless as fog? That just isn't normal, and I know it.

I mean, fog, in essence, is just little drops of water that have come together and lay close to the ground. It's just clouds, but where we can actually see and feel them. Harmless. And yet, that harmless thing sends me into convulsions, or it makes me faint, or it steals my breath. It scares me to the point I'm sick. And I know exactly why. I could pinpoint the date where "creeped out by" became "terrified of." It was the day my parents died. And the day I almost died to.

We were coming home from my dad's boss's big company birthday bash. All the employees and their families were invited. We almost didn't go because the weather reported that the conditions were ripe for a huge fog bank, but I begged them to go. I had a huge crush on the director's son, a man born about five years to early for us to work out, and I knew he would be their, since the party was for his father. Of course, I didn't tell my dad that was the reason. I let him believe it was because I hadn't seen the daughters of a few other employees in a long time. They were girls I had always gotten along with, though I never saw them often.

And I had fun when we were there. I spent the evening laughing with the girls, flirting with the director's son, and chatting with the director. He was sort of like a second father to me. I had grown up in the company. My father and the director were friends through high school and college, and started the company after their graduation. They were lucky. The company became very successful. Apparently at one point the two men had even arranged a marriage between me and his son, though they decided against it later, both because of the age gap and because they wanted us to have the right to pursue our own loves.

When we left the party we saw that the weather channel had been truthful, for once. A huge fog bank had indeed rolled in. It was thick. It wasn't exactly safe to drive in it, but it wasn't not safe. The director offered to let us stay with him, as he and his family lived just next door to the huge company facilities, but my father and mother decided against it. They wanted to get home that evening.

We were halfway home when the fog got even thicker. My dad pulled over to the side of the road so we wouldn't get in an accident. He cranked up the heater. It was so cold that night.

"You should have taken Charles's offer," my mother laughed, Charles being the director. My mom was always laughing. She was such an easy going woman.

My dad flashed his smile at her, "Ah, but then we wouldn't be having this adventure, would we?"

"No, Dad, we wouldn't," I had answered him, rolling my eyes, but still laughing along. "We would have been warm and snug in one of Uncle Charles's many guest rooms."

"Exactly, no fun."

It took a while before I noticed a discomfort under our cheerful mood. It was... strange. I felt like someone was watching me. The hairs on the back of my neck raised and I began to look around. My search became a bit more frantic, but I could see nothing in the dense fog. "Mom," I whispered, "something's not right."

She turned to look at me in the back seat. "What do you mean Leah?"

"I mean, something's not right. The air, it feels wrong, I feel like someone's watching me."

She ran a hand across my cheek. "Who could be watching you in this fog, Leah? You're okay, honey. It's just the fog getting to you like always."

But it wasn't like always. I could feel the difference, though I couldn't put it to words. The air felt dangerous, not creepy like normal. But no matter how hard I tried to get that across to them, they wouldn't listen.

Eventually I stopped trying to make them understand, and just watched. I peered into the fog, searching every angle that I could. I suppose that that's the only reason I saw the shadow move. My breath hitched. "M-mom! Dad! Somethings out there. I saw it."

"Leah," my father said, voice firm. "There isn't anything out there. Just--"

But he never got to finish what he said, because at that moment a rock crashed into our windshield, hard. And then a man jumped on the hood of the car, crouched down so his face was visible. His eyes were wild, animalistic. He pounded the windshield with the rock, eventually breaking it open. All the while my mother and I were screaming, and my dad scrambled to find something to defend us with. There was nothing.

My screams broke into a quiet, chocked sob. "I told you, I told you, I told you."

My mother did her best to soothe me through her own tears, but it was no use. The man crawled in through the window, bringing his rock with him. His face was dirty, his eyes crazed. And he wore a huge, malicious grin, showing a set of bright white, perfectly straight teeth.

I cried harder as he began to treat my father the same way he had treated our windshield, taking the rock to his skull. I squeezed my eyes shut. When he was finished with my father her turned to my mother. Somewhere in the midst of my mother's murder, and my sobs, police sirens began to sound.

Someone living nearby must have heard our screams. I, myself, had yet to stop screaming. I didn't want to stop. Only my screams could drown out the sounds of my parents death. The only reason I even heard the sirens was because he silenced me. His hand, warm with my parents blood, clamped over my mouth. I gagged and then vomited into his hand. "I swear to god, Kid, you better not make a sound. If you so much as whimper I'm taking you with me. You won't die, Kid, you'll just suffer. Don't make a sound." His voice was gravely, as if he rarely used it, but it didn't falter. I had no choice but to believe ever word he said. I stayed silent.

I heard him grunt then, and his body shifted toward me. I heard him lift the rock. I should have died too that night, but I saved myself, completely on accident. And all I did was open my eyes. Most people turn their head away from their deaths, or close their eyes as tight as the can. But I stared right back at my death. His eyes widened in shock when I opened mine. He had a pair of pure, emerald green eyes. They were so bright. So clear. His arm faltered. Mid-falter the sirens became louder and the search lights the police must have had on their cars caused the cabin of my dad's truck to glow. The man faltered even more, before finally bringing the rock down on my skull. But his double falter weakened the blow, and instead of killing me it knocked me unconscious, a state that lasted a couple days after.

When I woke up the director and his family were there at my bedside, crying. It took me a while to remember what was going on. I was so confused. As soon as I did, I cried too. The first sound I made the director's wife, Anne, realized I was awake. She pulled me into her arms and held me, and we both just cried. We stayed that way for a while, long past visiting hours. But the nurses didn't do anything, though the made her let me go long enough to make sure I was okay. Physically I was, but my heart was broken.

The man who killed my parents was caught that night. In his haste he was clumsy and didn't left too much evidence behind. When he was found near the scene, it sealed his fate. The director used his power to speed the trial along, so I didn't have to wait long for it to start. As soon as my part in the trial was over, and it was a large part, I stayed away from it. I didn't want to see him. I don't know what they sentenced him to, and truthfully I don't want to know. I'm done with anything that has to do with that man.

The director and his wife wanted to become my foster parents, but for reasons that were never quite explained they were unqualified to foster. So I was left to the mercy of the system. I"m not saying that I've had a bad experience with the foster system, mind you. I've been very lucky. I've gotten along quite well with the families I've been placed with. And I was with the first family for a whole year before the fog incident at the store. I hadn't seen it since the night of my parents' murder, since during the rest of the foggy season I had either been taking care of the trial, or I had been in and out of the hospital. I was never around when the fog settled. And the family was good to me during that time.

The therapist my social worker sent me to suggested that I move somewhere where fog either doesn't happen, or doesn't happen often, but I can't. I can't leave this town where my parents' memory lives. It's really the only connection to them I have left. How could I leave?

You probably think I'm real cold, talking about all this so calmly, right? But it's the only way I can talk about it. If I don't force myself to stay calm... I don't know what will happen. My therapist says I should let go. That I should just show how I'm feeling. Maybe she's right, but I can't do that yet. I'm scared of what will happen to me if I do.

I bet you're wondering why it's the fog I'm afraid of, of all things. A lot of people do. It's actually quite simple. Fog let that night happen. If it weren't for the fog we wouldn't have stopped on that road. And if it weren't for the fog, that man wouldn't have been able to sneak up on us. If it weren't for the fog I'd still have my parents. They'd still be hear, holding me. They'd tell me everything's okay when I'm scared, and they'd wipe my tears when I'm sad, and they'd laugh with me when I'm happy. They'd still get mad at me when I misbehave, and they'd still make sure to tell me when I'm being an idiot. They wouldn't have died if it weren't for the fog.

Fog is an enabler. It allowed that man to kill my parents, and it allowed him to nearly kill me. It was the fog that killed them, as much as it was that man.

It was the fog.